What Humans Feel
by Ganimyde
Summary: A freeverse poem going through all of Envy's feelings throughout the series.  It's not an emopoem, don't worry.  One of my best works, I feel.  Sp: end of series.


Are we all just raw materials to you, dante?

Or . . .

What you wanted him to be for _you?_

Because she wants to be independent, because he betrayed her.

"Because he betrayed us."

Long, long ago,  
"I" was destroyed by mercury poisoning  
my body breaking down,  
struck down early in its youth  
400 years ago, he found me,  
dead,  
and wouldn't let it die.  
Maybe she wouldn't let him go  
maybe he couldn't stop grieving  
maybe they both wanted it,  
or maybe she forced him to.  
I don't know.  
I can't know.  
Because,  
when I came back,  
there was nothing there that there used to be  
He made me,  
not "I,"  
but _me.  
Me.  
_Envy

I know he left  
He wasn't what I wanted him to be.  
He wasn't there for me  
he left  
And then I was alone with . . . "mommy. . . ?"  
I hated him.  
And I hated her  
But I couldn't leave her.  
Because she was all there was.  
He left me, and here I was.  
But she didn't leave me  
. . . in spirit.  
. . . .

I wanted to hurt her.  
She made another sin  
Just to get me back to normal,  
she made another sin  
another brother  
for me,  
of that fool.  
I hated her.  
If they had a Stone, why couldn't they make me?  
I couldn't be what they wanted.  
Unless they would give me their Stone,  
And they didn't.  
there wasn't enough left  
He looked at me, full of sorrow;  
the grief inside him, I could see—  
and again, he turned—  
away,  
from me.

She changed.  
She switched bodies.  
Could she have wanted to be like me?  
No.  
I saw it inside her.  
She just wanted to be with me.  
(Yeah, right.  
She just wanted for me to be.  
Be what she wanted me to be.  
And without Hohenheim . . .  
_damn you, Hohenheim . . .  
you haven't come back.  
_And I know you won't.  
But I I know I want you to.  
Just like she wants us both to  
And you won't.  
You never will.  
I'll never be yours, and you'll never be hers.  
Not anymore, anyway.  
(But I still can't help but find myself hoping.)  
Until she made another sin.  
And another.  
And a body that rots away.  
I can't help her.I used to want to, when she was young,  
but I can't respect her anymore, with the way she is.  
It's kinda fun, that she likes to kill people.  
Kinda enthused, that she makes them like me,  
trying to replicate _me,  
_Hohenheim's _me_.  
It's no longer that I cannot be what they wanted, their son.  
I imagine that now, it's about that she wants to catch him.  
She lost herself somewhere. . . .  
What used to be "my" "mother," lost somewhere in the void  
that void of switching bodies.  
Is it that she's becoming more like me?  
Yet, as inhuman as she'll ever get,  
as unbonded as her soul ever gets,  
as many people as she kills, and bodies that she takes,

and as many sins as she'll ever make,  
she'll always be able to use her Stone,  
and I won't.  
_because I'm not _human,_ and I don't have a _soul.  
Sucks, doesn't it?  
Well,...  
I guess it's true.  
She's lost herself.  
And yet still I sit here,  
because i like to kill myself  
Dante, Dante, Dante...  
did you make another one?  
Another one.  
A Human bastard.  
What am I supposed to do?  
Melancholic moment, looking away.  
I'm still the best one.  
You won't beat me  
I'm the first Sin and the last, the best, the strongest result,  
and I don't care if he became your Fuhrer—  
(you wanted him to lead you, didn't you?  
Just who are you recreating here?  
What I was supposed to be,  
what I am supposed to be,  
or . . .

(What you wanted him to be for _you_?)  
"I know all that you're trying to do is catch up to him,"  
I snapped angrily.  
That's all you've been trying to do.  
Making human _dolls _so that you can ge_t rid _of me!"Oh, Envy, why would I ever get rid of you,"  
she says, looking to my eyes,  
"You're the best. Because you're _his_."  
We both want to cry.  
We really feel it.  
Because you're gone.  
But,  
whatever.  
I'll just go kill some people  
and that's true, because she'll tell me to.  
"I know you're not a sin, Dante,"  
I breathe at the empty house,  
"but you fit the word so much better than I."  
I picked at my skin.  
The arm.  
The pale arm. . . .  
Was I the only one that would think about it?  
That I'm human, and she's not?  
Wait, scratch that thought.  
I'm not human; I never was!  
That's right, yes, because I kill people.  
And I do it because I like to.  
Sometime ago, I forgot why I do this.  
Yeah, so I didn't really forget,  
but I don't want to remember.  
Sure, she makes humans so that she can beat him, get back to him and show him what she can do, because "she doesn't need him anymore."

Because she wants to be independent, because he betrayed her.

"Because he betrayed us."  
However, I know her motivations still come from what "I," their son was;  
like instinct, it's so ground in and far away, unrecognizable to the self within and second nature, she works.  
She works, because, somewhere, she wanted to bring "me" back to life, and thinks that if she does, He'll come back to her.  
And her life will be right.  
She comes in the door.  
I wanted to hug her,  
But I didn't.  
But I did.  
In my mind.  
"Envy, what is this?"  
she asks, astonished.  
I know she wonders if I'm going to kill her.  
But we're both playing each other's games,  
so I smile, and don't let her go,(wickedly, that smile, you know)  
and she is happy back,  
"happy"  
happy with her creations,  
and so touches my muscles.  
Steps back,  
surveys with an eying idea.  
I'll know whatever she's thinking in a few days,  
when she goes and makes me do it.  
Well, stick around and gather materials, anyway.  
Are we _all _just raw materials to you, Dante. . . ?  
What a sigh.  
Somewhere, I hope she doesn't see.

WHAT?!

He has a _WHAT?!_

"DANTE—!

"_Khlugk—!"_

Blood flew out my mouth.

Crimson Blood.

Blood that she wanted to spill.

It hurt,

but I didn't really mind that;

it was rather exhilarating,

directly after, really.

But she pierced me,

_easily, _through three spots on my back,

things that she gave me when she went crazy.

She did that a lot, you know?

But that wasn't what pissed me off,

not really.

It was that he abandoned us.

That I was alone,

because she wasn't there for me anymore,

and there was no way that he would ever come back to me now.

And it made me feel worse,

because I was strapped there,

one life quickly taken,

spines that went jaggedly through the softs of my shoulders

and burst out through my sternum,

spines that went through the targets those dumb red stones created,

those dumb red stones that took away my humanity and gave me these lives.

Was that what she wanted?

Sigh.

Living vicariously . . .

That's what she did.

And that's what she wanted:

before I could kill her, trap me,

before I could go and kill _Him_,

because she wanted to kill Him herself.

Because now,

there was no way we ever going to get back together again.

Damn you, Hohenheim, you sure are good at screwing up things when you're not even there.

"_GOD DAMMIT!"_

That was it.

That was the last time I ever let her get me.

It was over; she was changed, and we were done.

She was cemented, but my dream didn't want to die.

Dreams die hard.

Despite the fact that, now, like I'd so long believed,

she'd never give me the Stone,

and there was this boy named Ed.

Edward Elric.

My name used to be Elric. . . .

"_GOD DAMMIT!_

"_Dante, let me fucking go!!!!!!"_

But she wasn't there.

_God dammit. _Grr. . . .

Eventually, she let me go.

When she came back, she let me go,

and I didn't look to see what she had done.

I didn't need to; I knew.

She had seen him.

And she _liked _him.

She slipped her hand around my waist and made me promise.

Made me promise that I wouldn't hurt him.

"I can't promise that,"

vehement, whispered I,

shaking from the rage pent up inside me,

red, from the inability to move,

and her command to submit.

"But I'll kill him," spread the smile;

"I'll rip him limb from limb in front of Him.

"If you tell me about him, I'd imagine better how to do it;

"make it pretty,

"just for you."

Dante pressed against me, and held both hands around my body.

She liked my skinny torso.

But she didn't like how tense I was.

Or maybe she did, because what she said made it so invariably worse.

"He doesn't have Him, either. He left her, too, the second one. He deserves to die.

"And there are two boys, not just one."

She tightened, and I knew what was going on inside her head, in that glare that I couldn't see.

I liked it,

because I would have tightened, too.

"But he's just a hollow suit of armor, now," she added quietly, "the second brother;

"a soul attached to a suit of armor,

"because he tried to bring her back, their mother, who is now a Sin, because they tried to bring her back, because she died when He left them with her.

"How sad."

So many curses went through my mouth, because I couldn't move,

but they stopped, suddenly, when she said that. My body chilled.

I didn't know why, but I was interested;

I was titillated, oddly, and I shivered.

"Have I seen this sin . . . ?" I wondered with my body taught.

"He made a Sin?"

I was so awed.

"How old is he?"

"I don't know," she sighed, resting into me. "But old enough."

Her fingers searched.

"I love him, Envy,

"like I love _you_,

"and he will give us what we want,

"don't you worry, yes, he will;

"we will make him,

"make him give us everything we need."

_And he will be our Hohenheim._

I was crushed. I really was.

Especially as she laid me down,

laid upon my body as I was upon the floor

and used it as her way to get out the emotion she was exuding;

used it to remember what she would feel so soon.

It sucked.

I hated it.

She sighed contentedly, passionate.

"Shut up, Dante," I immediately grumbled. "Let me go."

"You must promise you won't kill him."

_You must say yes._

"I can't do that."

"Can't, or won't?"

I didn't want to.

"I won't."

She stroked my hair;

It splayed everywhere,

strangely damp and sweaty, and set in curly ends,

rings and locks flowing across the wooden floor.

This awful place. I'll get out of here.

"You can get your vengeance later if you want to,

"my son,

"but when you have everything you've wanted,

"will you still want to?"

_Shhhhh_.

"But I need you, Envy, to do what we need to do.

"Only with you can I get this boy.

"Do you understand?—

"I _need _you. And I won't let you go, you got that?"

I wondered.

She fingered my chest,

my orobouros. . . .

Why would she do that?

To remind me how much I wasn't human. . . .

Or because she _liked _it?

I protested. I tried. But she just put her lips on mine,

to silence me,

not a kiss,

but a block,

and then ripped out a spine.

I cried. I really cried, truly, when I was alone.

And it was pain.

Pain in that dark night,

all alone,

hunched into a ball against the floor,

against the agony of a dream that fell apart.

In the blue hues of the underground,

I shook,

uncertain,

tears flowing into anger in the dark,

the dark that fueled everything,

the dark that fueled soulless thoughts

Through slippery hair, my deep, vibrant eyes, a'glittering, pierced and at the same time pleaded with that malignant darkness,

that darkness where I touched my horrible wound.

I cried.

The poor thing hadn't healed yet.

—_This poor thing hasn't healed yet—_

And so many jagged lumps, shredded flesh that wouldn't move without a shock, it stung—

She had wanted me to feel it,

_Dante_,

feel what _she _had wanted to do. . .

I threw my fist down,

cursed the lords,

shook my head; tears fell down.

My hair slipped over my shuddered shoulders,

and I cried some more.

_Those damn __**Humans! **_I cried again—

the pain ached and spaszmed and intensified—

it's been like this all my life;

all they've ever tried to do is screw with me!

I'm going to kill them, KILL THEM ALL,

for I am Sin, not the same as human—

_homunculus_, I like that word, yes, I do. . . .—

So I can do what they cannot; I can make them _die _like you cannot,

and that boy, too, will die with you, die in the most painful conjuration I can think of. . . .

He is the proof of what you did to me.

That He's given up and created anew,

that she's made a dream, a dream so _insane_ that I'm not even in the picture; I'm just the means to get her there,

the killer,

the hair—

And if he would just _GO AWAY—_

but no—he's the son of _Hohenheim; _I have to make him _suffer!_

Because we all have pain to get born, and _pain to get free. . . ._

So I won't let you get away with it,

not anymore.

Sure, I'll play your game, Dante,

I'll kill people for you, because I like killing people,

and each time, I'll imagine it's him,

his cartilage breaking, his muscles tearing, his body, warm with blood, writhing,

all because it makes me feel good, because I know, if I ever let go, I'll be alone.

And have absolutely nothing.

Because she had lost it;

she had left me alone,

just like Hohenheim did,

shattered my dreams, because he had shattered hers.

And he had shattered her, so he had shattered _me._

I won't be able to live.

Is there supposed to be some nice cross between being aimless and being free?

Am I supposed to have meaning if I wander off alone?

Well, we Sins _are _supposed to mimic humans, so we don't like to be alone—

perhaps it's our insecurities that makes us group together?—

but, I can never see myself out in that world and being with someone else

(someone normal, omg),

so, I guess that's another reason why I'm so reluctant to leave her. . . .

Somewhere, I don't want to do this, when I look at it that way:

Leave Dante, and be totally lost,

or stay in this place, be owned by the one that's cracked and left you,

and love to hate too much?

I had to sigh.

But then, that's got to be my Devine punishment(being a Sin as I am, after all, you know . . .)— It's not that I don't have a soul and can't do alchemy(that I can't fix myself),

no, it must be that I can't live on my own;

my curse is that, when you take away those two people, the ones who cared for me, the ones whom I imprinted on, like a baby bird, those two things that held my life in check, I'm a helpless little baby, a pathetic little sin, even worse than the others. They still bumble around, wanting for something,

but I,

_I_ delude myself with a notion of killing, an obsession, because I know that without it, without this front, this one-sided, twisted bond I've made with Edward Elric, I have nothing.

And I really didn't like that.

My curse is that I can't have control over my own life. Is that why they called me Envy?

I cocked my jaw to the side, and stood depressedly for a minute,

and then she came in the door, and then I remembered:

I didn't want to think about this anymore;

no, we don't wanna think about that, no no no;

we wanna kill people, yes, yes we do,

because the truth is too much to bear,

unless, of course, you're inflicting it on someone else.

_(Ed.)_

But I know;

I'm smarter than that;

I'm smarter than _them,_

_all of them,_

and yet, while I kill people, I come back "home" and think:

It felt so good to be away from the chains Dante had,

from the chains, I believed, were my past,

but only when I knew I could kill him, Chibi.

I'm fueled by dark passion, fueled by greed and lust and gluttony,

driven to pride and wrath,

and yet, if I were to be without them, I'd be just like Dante—

(I glance her way)—

Just like Dante. . . .

I killed him, I did, and so blinded I was to fulfill my revenge that I went on,

but now,

I realize,

like I had realized before, that I realize I will soon have falling over my cheeks in red, raging tears,

that all this is useless,

and all this is doomed,

because he doesn't want me back; he never will.

I should have accepted it before.

But I always thought, that if that boy was dead,

if that was erased,

my dream would be recreated, and He would come back. Because, suddenly, there'd be nothing in the way of him returning.

Because, suddenly, things would be just like they were before Ed was born, before He betrayed us. . . .

My original dreams hadn't died, and neither had hers.

I just wanted to be what you wanted me to be, but you weren't willing to work on it, because I'm like a child, inside, unable to fix my own problems, and she wanted to make things right again, but was willing to do anything to get you back with her.

Those were our dreams, deep down inside.

No, my original dreams hadn't died, and neither had hers.

They'd just transformed, because the original ideas,

when they're built upon entire lives,

can only transform,

and never die.


End file.
